


More Lonely Than Cold

by asktheravens



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Implied Relationships, M/M, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asktheravens/pseuds/asktheravens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor's desire for a proper Midgardian Solstice leads to his new friends, and most of New York, getting the gift they really need, but he can't ask for what he really wants for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Lonely Than Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This goes out to nightwalker, for her unflagging enthusiasm and moral support; to kahn for getting me into this fandom in the first place; and to brbgallifrey for all the times she did my housework and otherwise kept things running so I could scrabble at my laptop.
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to brbgallifrey for her keen editorial eye and to nightwalker for being ever-willing to talk about headcanon.

     Thor himself said it started with the package, but to anyone who was paying attention, the package was the end of something much more than the beginning. It came from Norway, wrapped in brown paper and covered in airmail stamps, addressed to a Mr. Thor Odinson, C/O Tony Stark, as did all of Thor's (limited) mail. Tony brought it down to his apartment on a volatile, grey December afternoon in the gloomiest, stormiest autumn anyone in New York City could remember. He found his friend sitting in his dark room, his favorite chair turned away from the TV to face the windows, staring morosely at the rolling clouds and hoped the package from Jane and Darcy would lift his mood.

“It doesn't say, 'Don't Open Until Christmas'...so go for it,” Tony told him. Thor opened the paper with surprising delicacy, folding it like he meant to use it later. In the box was a fruit cake that reeked of liquor, wrapped against at least seven Biblical plagues, two wrapped presents, and a card. The smaller gift was an iPod from Darcy (pre-loaded, as a blessing to Tony's sanity). Thor hesitated between the card and the other present, his characteristic thousand-watt smile growing brighter as" Have a Holly Jolly Christmas" filled his ears. “Let's see what they say first!” he said, tearing open the card. The outside showed a dark-furred demon with a grotesquely long tongue leering with Yuletide lechery at two scantily clad young women.  Inside, it appeared to wish Thor a merry Krampusnacht.  A few folded, printed papers fell out; these turned out to contain the track list for the iPod, and Tony groaned inside as he pictured Thor still humming three versions of "Rockin Around the Christmas Tree" in March. Thor started reading Jane's message. His excited grin crumpled and collapsed. “They...They say they aren't able to come for the holy days. The anomalous aurora borealis continues and they must stay in Norway to...to quantify. They aren't coming.” A low rumble of thunder shook the glass of the Tower and a spatter of sleet blew against the window with a hiss.

“Shit...I'm sorry, buddy. That's rough,” Tony, himself no stranger to spending holidays alone, tried to think what to say while staring nervously at the rapidly worsening storm. He had a hard enough time believing his friend could call lightning with his magic hammer and he'd seen that; he just about refused to believe Thor's mood affected the weather but it was getting harder and harder to avoid drawing that conclusion. “Come on, Point Break, we'll have an awesome Christmas, just the six of us, all that happy Hallmark Channel shit,” _Tony what are you saying you HATE Christmas SHUT UP,_ he thought, but as he said it, Thor's kicked-puppy expression brightened, and he'd been so miserable lately anyway that Tony found himself smiling and nodding in spite of himself.

“Truly? A proper Midgardian Solstice?” Thor asked.

“Absolutely. Now go on. Open your other present.” Thor did seem a bit cheered up, and he tore into the happy reindeer paper. Inside was an oversized Victorian children's book. Tony couldn't read the cover, but he recognized it as something of Scandinavian origin, and judging by the pictures, it was a book of Christmas stories.  Thor flipped past a few pages before he came to one with a bookmark.  As he lifted the fine tissue protecting the illustration, his breath caught.  The page showed Odin, mounted on his eight-legged horse and distributing presents into the stockings of smiling Nordic children. 

“Yes,” said Thor, his hand gently tracing over the page, “A proper Midgardian Solstice.”

 

***

 

To anyone who'd been paying attention, and Tony and Steve both qualified, Thor had been decidedly not-right since October. They'd hardly seen him all month, and when they had he'd seemed anxious and pre-occupied. Then on Halloween night he'd set to carving pumpkins with single-minded determination, jaw set with concentration, and hadn't joined his friends in their joking and seed-flinging. Even Clint had conceded the biggest pumpkin to Thor's palpable need and sense of urgency, electing to carve his masterpiece glowing butt in the second-largest instead. When they had finished hauling all the pumpkins up to the observation deck, they faced them out to the city and lit them with Tony's special LEDs. All talk and laughter died off quickly, however, when everyone saw Thor's carvings. They were eerie, somber things, and even the lights inside them seemed different. They stood in dark contrast with the cheery grins and grimaces around them, and the largest in the center was the worst. It had a terrible stern face with a gaze that seemed to follow them and intricate bands of runes at the top and base that blazed more brightly than anything else on the deck.

“Thank you, friends,” Thor said quietly. “These should be sufficient. I will go on patrol now. Please, continue the feast in my absence.”

“No, come on Thor, come in with us,” said Steve, picking up on Thor's odd mood. “It's quiet. SHIELD is monitoring the city. We got you another bag of candy corn and we're going to watch...”

“I appreciate it,” Thor said, holding up his hand, “But things are very...fragile tonight and I fear I would be poor company. I must be vigilant. Enjoy the festivities, but please keep the ghost lights burning.” With that, he took off into the cool, damp autumn night while all around them the strange lanterns glowed.

 

***

 

Thor watched the Macy's Parade file by the Tower like a man going to the gallows. Steve had gotten up early to start the stuffing, and the smell of turkey and sage had attracted several of his teammates. He joined Thor on the observation deck to watch the dancers and floats and bands, and although much had changed it still took him back to when he was a child. He had thought that Thor, out of all of them, would love the spectacle, even though the weather was gray and cold and the scent of snow filled the air. Even the float with actors dressed as the Avengers failed to move the Asgardian as they performed a dance version of their victory over the Chitauri to "Eye of the Tiger". In fact, it seemed to make him even more unhappy.

“Thor?” he asked “Aren't you enjoying the parade?”

“Oh, yes. But it seems such a terrible shame.”

“What?”

“That they must all die at the end. Do they televise that part?”

“WHAT?”

“I am surprised they are able to find so many willing to be sacrificed. I had heard from the paper that this was a secular society, unconcerned with gods.”

“Thor, just what do you think is going on down there?” Steve asked. His friend had some odd ideas sometimes, but this was a new one.

“This is the day of Thanksgiving, and clearly we are watching a sacrificial procession. I assume that once they finish the ritual dancing and music, they give their lives joyously to the gods. Then they are probably burnt. That's what they did the last time I was in Midgard, anyway, though those people could not afford to offer so many youths and animals. And there was no floating Garfield. Why, it used to take them the whole morning to strangle them all, and then there would be a feast while the bodies sank into the peat bog.”

“What kind of god would...I don't even...” Thor gave this a moment of thought while Steve struggled to process this vision of cheerful holiday slaughter.

“As I understand it, Santa Claus is the god of Thanksgiving. He will arrive and bring winter, though that does not truly start for some weeks yet, and he is the arbiter of who will survive and who will not. So I suppose it is fitting that he has such a prodigious appetite for blood...and cookies, though it seems traditional to make them human-shaped as well, to appease him.” Steve was at a loss; he could only stare at Thor as his mind grasped for any platform from which to combat his friend's misinformation.

“Hey, Cap,” said Clint, shivering as he walked out into the biting wind, “Something dinged in the kitchen. You want me to start...stirring things, or something?”

“That will be the giblets,” he said. He seemed to find the idea of Hawkeye messing with his cooking even worse than Thor's Macy's Thanksgiving Day Atrocity. “Listen, Clint: please explain parades to Thor. Also Thanksgiving. And Santa. And...the Pilgrims and things. I've got to go finish the gravy base and start the pies. Actually, see if you can get him to focus on pie; he likes pie.” Steve dashed inside to save his giblets as Clint accepted this strange order.

“OK. But come inside, not all of us are from Norway or some shit and it's fucking freezing out here.”

“But I wish to watch the rest. It would be...disrespectful not to acknowledge the great sacrifice.”

“Thor, I have no idea what you are talking about, but the parade's on TV if you really want to see it. Come on. We can watch some Punkin' Chunkin before Stark descends from on high to call it amateur hour and tell us how they won't let him enter because he'd win it all forever. And there's the dog show. Even Cap might like the dog show.”

“A...blessing of the hounds?”

“Yeah, sure.  They choose the best dogs in the country.”

“Do they...kill them? At the end?  Take the finest and cut the throat and pour the blood out on the ground?”

“Nope. They don't even punt the yappy ones.”

“I see. Very well, I will join you on the couch in a moment.”

Clint ducked back into the warmth of the Tower and Thor turned back to the parade. It seemed that he was not understanding Midgard correctly. He'd changed his opinion on mass slaughter since he was younger, but he had been a bit comforted to find that humans still performed some sort of ritual he recognized.  It seemed once again he was wrong.  He stared at the rolling grey sky for a few moments, trying to think of nothing at all.

A raven landed on the railing at his left. It was large, even as ravens go, and if you were brave enough to look closely you could see the stars and constellations of a foreign sky deep in its cruel dark eyes. Thor looked down at the bird and sighed. He lowered his golden head to make sure none of the message was lost to the wind; the raven's words would not be repeated. The bird made a series of croaks and caws that were little like the sounds made by any mortal creature. They had a ponderous resonance, like the tolling of an iron bell. The message was brief, and required no reply. The son of Odin spoke a word in his own tongue, heavier even than the strange bird's. The raven burst into warmthless flames, burning and crumbling to ash in a few seconds A few motes of fine dust, the same non-color as the clouds, blew away in the icy wind. Thor took another moment to compose himself, then squared his shoulders and went inside to try to understand this Midgardian festival of Thanks.

 

***

 

Steve had, as team leader and official cook, placed some rules on their first Thanksgiving as a group. Everyone had to wear clothes. Normal clothes. No weapons at the table. No hogging the gravy, or anything else. Knife and fork required at all times. No robots without prior approval. No cranberry sauce out of a can. He thought the table looked nice, if he did say so himself. Tony had pronounced it “positively Norman Rockwell”, but like it was a compliment. He'd even graciously traded his scotch for a glass of white wine, though he and Clint were still heatedly discussing something about punkins, each trying to get Bruce and Natasha to choose a side. Tony was scribbling some sort of engineering blueprint on a napkin (a cloth napkin, no less) and gesturing animatedly. Clint was rolling his eyes, Bruce appeared to be seriously checking Tony's math, and Natasha had her own enigmatic smile as she carefully pulled apart a steaming roll. Thor, aside from an appreciative look over the feast, had been staring out the window.

The sky had gotten steadily darker since that morning and a heavy, stinging sleet was rattling against the Tower's huge windows. Soon any trace of the sun would be gone and it would be full dark despite being only mid-afternoon.  They had added an enormous circular table to the common area, replacing the collection of armchairs, love seats, and informal kitchen seating they usually used. Candles lit the table and a well-established fire crackled in the hearth. Everything smelled like spices and baking and woodsmoke. Clint assured him that Thor was now straight on Thanksgiving, so Steve only hoped he wasn't sitting there being depressed about the lack of human sacrifices or wondering where the nearest peat bog could be found. The big Asgardian was usually the easiest to read and predict; it worried him that even a whole room full of food couldn't bring back his friend's easy smile.

“OK, everyone! Thanks for waiting, I'm sure we're all starving. Let's just take a minute to reflect on what we all have to be thankful for, and then I'll carve this turkey.” To his pleasure, they actually fell silent and seemed to be taking this somewhat seriously. For a moment the only sounds were the fire inside and the ice without.

“Loki has escaped,” Thor said, as though the sudden quiet had awoken him. “I received a message this morning from Asgard.”

“WHAT?! They swore they'd keep him, that he'd never see daylight again! We should have drowned him in a bucket when we had the- OW! WHO KICKED ME?” Clint stared daggers around the table at his teammates, several of whom were giving him meaningful looks.

“Well, battlestations everyone,” Steve sighed, already planning how to fit everything into the fridge.

“There's no need,” said Thor. “He cannot have gotten all the way to Midgard already, not without being spotted. And he's no reason to come here,” he added more quietly. “As to how, well, my brother is nothing if not crafty. There is no prison in the Nine Realms could hold him forever. But he will be weakened, and I doubt he wants to tangle with Banner again any time soon. He will hide, rebuild his strength, seek new allies perhaps, for a while before he comes back here to challenge us. So we can enjoy our feast today- myself, I am thankful for the health and company of my Midgardian friends, for the welcome they have shown me while I am so far from home. Also I am glad none of the people in the parade were killed.” Tony, Natasha and Bruce all looked to each other at this, then let it pass with a shrug. Clint still looked like SOMEBODY should die for what he'd just heard about Loki. Steve suppressed a shiver. “Finally,” Thor continued, “I have heard there will be pie, of a variety I have never tasted. That should be enough for any man.”  With that, he reached over and picked up the closest gravy boat, examined it, and poured some out onto his empty plate. Then he reached for the green beans and the sweet potatoes at the same time.

 

Some time later, Tony turned to Clint and asked, “So what DID you tell him about Thanksgiving?”

“I told him all the happy shit about the Pilgrims not starving because the Indians shared their food and now we all gather to give thanks. We got a little off track when I tried to explain biscuits in a tube. And I’m sorry in advance if a truckload of turducken shows up in the next few days. He wanted to know if turkey had “ritual significance”. Oh, and you might have to go with him tomorrow, because I think he wants to ‘compete’ in Black Friday. Otherwise he should be good.”

“Has he said anything else about his…about Loki?”

“Not to me. Fuck I hate the holidays.”

“Me too. But at least there’s leftover turkey, somehow.”

“Yeah I told Thor if there was nothing left it meant we’d have a bad winter.”

“He believed you?”

“I guess so. You ever see any leftovers around here before?”

“Not for long. Now let’s just hope Reindeer Games doesn’t show up for Christmas and I’ll call it square with Santa.”

“Oh, I hope he does come. I got something special in the quiver for him.” Clint went back to watching the silent football game with a dark little smile.

 

***

 

“The usurper is everywhere,” Thor reported on December 18th. Steve and Clint were both getting up and reaching for their comms in seconds. “Nay, I do not think it poses a threat to the city. I had just forgotten.” He sat heavily in his favorite armchair, brooding.

“Forgotten what?” Clint asked, settling back into the loveseat.

“Midgard’s preoccupation with my…replacement.”

“Replacement?”

“Yes.” Thor’s look was a building thunderhead. “When I was younger, the people of Midgard recognized me, at least in the northern climes. My brother and I were always visiting.”

“Loki?” Steve leaned in, growing interested.

“Yes. He was…kinder, then. More himself. We would arrive and the people would prepare feasts for us, and ask my help in their wars. I cared little for their causes; I lived for battle and would aid whoever best flattered me. I am ashamed to tell of it now, but I was different then myself. And the women! I would have the finest chamber and they would come and offer me…well, perhaps that is going too far.” Clint looked like he might like to hear it anyway; Steve did not.

“What did you do with Loki?” Clint asked instead.

“He often came with me. If they showed him respect, and kept his mead flowing, he would weave fabulous tales for us with grand illusions, like your moving pictures, or make carved dragons come to life and statues speak. He liked to show off his tricks, but if they insulted him he’d sour the milk and beer or becalm ships in an endless mist. Once I think he even brought down a blizzard, but he might have just taken credit for that. But the Allfather got tired of Asgardians meddling in human affairs. Our ancient war with Jotunheim came to bloodshed once again, and we were away from Midgard for a time. It got harder and harder for us to come- humans were destroying the sites where the Bifrost touched down because they were associated with me and my family. A man named Boniface cut down my oak as a challenge, and I was not there to answer him.”

“Your oak?”

“Aye. When I was learning to use Mjolnir’s power I struck many trees with lightning, but there was one in particular that I must have struck nearly a hundred times. It was mine and I favored it, like Midgard itself. But humans turned against me, and each other. I have learned from television that they still revere Charlemagne?”

“Yeah, he’s famous for converting to Catholicism,” Steve said quietly.

“He murdered thousands I had sworn to protect because they would not forsake me.”

“Awkward.” Clint said.

“They called upon me and I couldn’t hear them. When next I came I found Midgard no longer knew me. We had faded into stories- unflattering ones, by and large. Now there is this ‘Christmas’ where we used to keep Yule.”

“So that thing with you and the wedding dress…” Clint prompted.

“Oh. That one is true. Mostly. Loki…well, never mind. A tale for another time.”

“Are you going to start a literal war on Christmas? I’ll bring popcorn.”

“Shut up Clint,” Steve warned.

“You are jesting, my friend. I could not battle a day, and would not sunder something that seems to make so many happy. But I do not understand. I offered them aid, ate and drank at their tables; why did they turn to a god who is never seen?”

“You got me. I never had much use for religion at all. Nothing but superstition.”

“Says the man who won’t go on a mission without his lucky underpants.”

“That’s different, Cap. Lucky underpants, that’s just facts.”

“Thor, I don’t know about those people a long time ago. If Tony were here, he’d no doubt say that even I’m not that old. But I grew up Irish Catholic. That’s a kind of Christian religion,” he clarified. “My mom prayed every night, for the strength to keep going after my dad died. She prayed for me to not get sick anymore, and then when I did she prayed I wouldn’t die. When she was dying, she prayed I wouldn’t get what she had, even though everyone said I would. She knew when she was gone the church orphanage would take care of me. I guess the point is, she felt like someone was with her, listening, even when she didn’t get what she wanted. People now aren’t used to a god they can see; I don’t think they even want one.”

“You don’t believe in me,” Thor said quietly.

“Of course I do. You’re my friend. I trust you with my life. And I’ve seen some crazy stuff since 1923- some of what I saw people do to each other was enough to make me wonder if there’s anyone out there at all, much less meeting someone from another world. So my mind’s not made up. But the things you remember…I think they’re gone.”

“Yes. I think you are right. I will never understand Midgard; I think I never did.” Thor stood and walked out, carrying his hammer like a burden.

 

***

 

Thor sat in his chair with his chin on his fist. He watched the sun setting over New York, outshone by the lights of the city. On his knee the book of Christmas stories lay open to the woodcut of Odin, the facing text obscured by Jane’s card. Thor’s gaze went from the picture to the sun to the writing, around and around. Anomalous Aurora Borealis. Odin visiting Midgard. St. Boniface. He snapped the book shut with the card inside and stood up. Taking Mjolnir in his other hand, he went to make some preparations.

 

***

 

“Has anyone seen Thor?”Steve asked the next morning.

“He asked me to plot him a flight path to Norway at about 3:00am,” said Bruce, sipping his tea.

“And you did it?”

“I was already up.”

“Did he say what was going on, or when he was coming back? Does he need help?”

“It's pretty obvious, isn't it Cap? That's where his girl is, Jill or Jane or whatever. Booty call,” Clint wandered in with a bowl of Froot Loops. “You know, she needs him to nail something with his big hammer…” He realized at this point that Bruce and Steve were just waiting for him to stop talking.

“Maybe he went home for the holidays,” Bruce suggested. “He's the only one of us who has that as an option, really. Mom's Golden Apples of Immortality Pie and the whole nine yards.” He thought Steve and Clint might like to argue with him, but then they realized it was true- Thor WAS the only one with living family on speaking terms with him, and someplace like a home to go to.

“He can't, though,” Tony said, joining them. He was obviously still up from last night, in the same rumpled Iron Maiden shirt, a faded pair of boxers, and a flame-retardant apron. He had a marker tucked behind his ear, several equations written on his forearms, and needed a shave. “Bless you, Cap,” he said, toasting him vaguely with his mug of coffee. “Should have gotten teammates years ago if I'd known I'd get one who could make potable coffee.”

“Bruce made the coffee.”

“Well bless him too, then. No, Thor can't go home at will unless he brings the Tesseract back to Earth, and he wasn't willing to do that. I'm not sure what his Dad did to get him here in the first place but I take it it isn't very cost effective- I think he's almost banished here for now. I've been working on it but Pepper and the UN made me sign a thing saying I wouldn't work with quantum tunneling anywhere within fifty miles of human habitation. Hey, JARVIS!”

“Sir?”

“Trace Thor's communicator, priority 3N.”

“Serial number AS102-T is no longer on Earth.”

“Did it shut off or something?”

“It is no longer on Earth. It is outside of tracking range.”

“OK...go to priority 1S, maximum relay.”

“It is no longer on Earth nor any neighboring planets, moons, or asteroids.”

“What was its last logged location, then?”

“Tonsberg, Norway at 4:17am Eastern Standard time.”

“Son of a bitch...maybe he DID go home. Do we have any news reports of anything weird happening in Norway?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Bruce, what did he say when he talked to you?” Steve asked.

“He just said he needed something for Yule and he couldn't get it here. He was very calm. I suggested he wait and get someone to go with him in the jet but he said it wouldn't be necessary.”

 

***

 

Two nights later, on December 20th, a huge clap of thunder rattled everything in the Avengers Tower.  The team spilled onto the observation deck moments after car alarms began to go off and lights turned on all over the city.  They found themselves face to face with the Thunderer astride his father’s massive horse.

“Oh,” said Tony, “No WAY.”

Sleipnir’s flanks were heaving with effort and steam came from his mouth and coat as he panted with effort, but he held his head high. Pride and challenge flashed in his black ice eyes. He was the color of clouds, the silver grey of rain across his back shading to storm-dark at his feet and ears. Eight hooves danced nervously on the unfamiliar concrete surface and he tossed his mane and lashed his tail like sleet. An empty sack was draped over his withers and secured by his rider’s thighs. Thor leaned forward and patted his neck, murmuring something comforting in his own heavy tongue. The horse stilled but continued to stare a challenge at the other Avengers, his nostrils flared wide seeking their scents.

Thor put one leg over and slid off his mount’s back. His knees nearly buckled when he tried to stand, and he steadied himself against Sleipnir’s shoulder until the weakness passed. Seeing Thor nearly black out was enough to pull some of Steve’s attention away from the eight-legged flying horse he’d brought back. Although his mount was clean, Thor was covered in mud and blood stains. His gleaming armor was not in evidence and his jeans and flannel were filthy and torn. His left sleeve was crusted with dark brown blood past the elbow and and a dirty makeshift bandage wrapped his left palm and wrist. His hair was wind-blown and lank, his eyes dark circles in his pale, grey face.

“You OK, Thor?” He stepped closer but Sleipnir tossed his head and snapped at him.

“Do not be concerned. I am only tired from my travels,” Thor made a vague sweeping gesture with his right arm. He took the bag from Sleipnir and clamped it to his left side with his elbow. “My friends, may I introduce Sleipnir, finest and most regal lord of horses, descended from the royal house of Odin and the true mount of kings. Bow your heads and step slowly and he will let you approach.”

Steve was the first to move, edging closer to his friend with his head bowed low. He extended his palm and Sleipnir breathed in his scent. He made a quick judgement, dipping his grey muzzle into his outstretched hand with a whuffling sound. He was relieved to find that, whatever the horse’s uncanny nature and icy appearance, his nose was warm and velvety. He smelled of warm barns and ozone.

“He likes you.” Thor gave him a ghost of his usual smile. He reluctantly stepped away from his mount’s support. Sleipnir gave Steve’s blonde hair a casual taste before turning to meet the others.

It was hard to look at Sleipnir; like staring into a swift river or a stormy sea, even when still he seemed full of constant rushing motion and unknown depth. Tony was staring mesmerized watching the muscles play in the eight dancing legs; whether he was trying to figure out how they worked or just trying to accept what he was seeing wasn’t clear. Natasha was already up on her toes scratching behind his royal ears, whispering something low and melodic in her native tongue. Even Clint’s usually guarded expression showed a mix of longing and wonder. Bruce hung back at the entrance to the deck.

“Animals don’t like me,” he said quietly.

“Don’t insult royalty,” Natasha told him mock-seriously. “He carries Thor’s father in battle; you won’t frighten him.” She held out her hand to Bruce. “Now come say hi.” He came to her hand warily, the horse watching him. Sleipnir snorted and pranced to the side when he got the Hulk’s scent, nearly knocking over Thor, but Natasha kept her palm on his neck until she caught Bruce’s arm. She guided his hand, placing it next to her own. Sleipnir’s skin twitched and his eyes rolled, but he held still. After a tense moment passed, he stilled and relaxed, and Bruce stroked his neck with a rare, shy smile.

“Could one of you stable him?” Thor asked hopefully. “He likes dried flowers and honey.” His teammates exchanged awkward, not-me glances.

“I can,” Clint volunteered. “If he’ll let me. What, we had them where I grew up. You don’t forget how.” He looked tense and eager and younger somehow.

“Certainly he will. He will be gracious as a king. Thank you. I would do it myself, but I was hoping to rest. The journey was…difficult and I have much to do on the morrow.” Thor looked so unsteady on his feet that Steve offered him his arm, and Thor surprised him by taking it.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Ah…the way back to Asgard is long. I had to take what you would likely call a ‘toll road’.” With that, Thor headed inside.

“Are you sure you don't want to stop by Medical first?” Steve asked without much hope. He knew Thor was tough, but he was leaning loose and heavy on his arm. His attention was focused on the big empty bag, like keeping track of it and staying on his feet were about all he could manage. He kept it pinned to his chest with his left arm, cradling his bandaged hand at the same time.

“Hmmm? No, no, that won't be necessary. I am only tired from my travels. I will be ready for the festivities tomorrow.” Thor forced himself fully upright and pressed his right thumb to the scanner panel at the door to his apartment. He gave Steve an attempt at a smile and walked in, shutting the door behind him. Steve stood in the hallway, waiting. Tony came down the hallway a minute or two later, looking both curious and troubled. He raised an eyebrow at Steve in a silent question, and seeing his face and the closed door he hit a few keys on the scanner panel and then put his left eye a few inches from it, engaging the master override. Thor's door opened silently and they went inside.

The lights in Thor's private apartment were on the lowest setting but not off, bright enough to show the hulking outlines of his sparse but heavy furniture. It was very clean, with only a few personal objects displayed around the studio-style space. One of these was his palatial bed, brought from Asgard, with its ornate runic carvings and heavy red and gold covers. They found Thor sprawled on his back on the bed with his feet off of it, as though he'd sat down and simply passed out backwards, sound asleep. He still had the empty bag held firmly against his right side. Steve reassured himself that the big chest was rising and falling steadily.

“He's really out,” he said, keeping his voice low. Tony nodded, also looking concerned. He made a “be right back” motion and headed out the door. Steve knelt down and gently tugged Thor's muddy, rain-soaked boots off and set them out of the way. Then he rearranged Thor so he was all the way on the bed. They had learned that, if he felt secure, Thor had a soldier's ability to sleep through almost anything, but Steve still didn't think they could get his filthy clothes off or otherwise get him any cleaner without disturbing his rest. Steve sat on the edge of the bed and tried to pull Thor's bandaged left arm over towards him. He murmured in his sleep and almost struggled, but let him have it without waking. Steve tapped the lamp over the bed twice to give himself more light and started picking away the stiff, sticky improvised wrapping. They were tied clumsily, like he'd used his one hand and maybe his teeth to make the knots. They were also stuck to the wound he uncovered, a deep, ragged gash that ran from the middle of his palm over his wrist and halfway up his forearm. When he took the bandage away it started bleeding sluggishly in a few places, and his skin was streaked with mud and more dried blood. It didn't look like it had come from combat, or been made with something particularly sharp. He remembered what Thor had said about a toll road and tried not to imagine anything further.

Tony returned with one of the Tower's elaborate med kits and a stack of clean towels. “Thanks, nurse,” Steve said with a grin. He tucked a towel under the arm and dug through the med kit, coming up with a pair of trauma shears and a handful of syringes of normal saline. “Just to make us feel better,” he said. Tony swallowed hard, watching as Steve used the shears to cut off Thor’s ruined shirt, and checked him over for more injuries. He found nothing else, so he began irrigating the long gash. “I don't really know if any of this matters to someone like Thor...but this damn thing looks like someone made it with a rock and then rolled it in a pig pen, so I really think we should hit it with some iodine at least.”

“Betadine,” Tony said.

“What?”

“They use Betadine now. Might be some in there.”

“I don't see it,” he said, rummaging through the bag's many compartments. Tony hesitated a moment, because the blood and dirt and hospital smells were putting him on edge, but then he sat on the bed next to Steve and looked as well. He found the sterile alcohol wipes and handed them over.

“Try these,” He watched Steve's hands, gentle and sure, as he swabbed Thor's entire forearm and palm clean, avoiding the actual wound but sterilizing the unbroken skin. It took about three-quarters of the kit's supply, but it looked less horrible once all the caked mud and blood and bits of shirt were off it. “Can you get his hand?” Steve asked him. He was preparing to bandage it up properly. Tony got up and soaked another towel in warm water and came back, using it to gingerly work the grime off his knuckles and fingers. Steve chuckled a little when he started under his fingernails, but not like he was doing anything wrong, so he kept at it. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Steve applied butterfly closures to keep the wound closed. He thought it would likely do just as much good to put some glittery heart stickers that said GET WELL SOON, but why not? They finished up and Steve wrapped gauze around the ugly wound. Tony found an extra blanket in Thor's closet and spread it over him- his friend was still pale and his skin seemed much cooler than usual, but he looked less vulnerable with the heavy red wool tucked around him. “I already told JARVIS to monitor his vital signs and notify me if they change,” he said. “And to make sure he gets his favorite plate of cheeseburgers when he wakes up. Nothing else we can do for him right now.”

“There IS one other thing,” Steve said.

“Oh?”

“I think you promised him a Christmas tree and we'd better have one.”

 

They left him to sleep. The apartment door closed quietly and the lights went out, leaving only the soft whir of the heating and a very faint beeping in time with his pulse. Thor curled up under the blanket, drawing his bandaged arm to him and smiling in his sleep.

“Thank you Loki,” he murmured, and drifted back into his dreams.

 

***

 

Thor surfaced the following afternoon, clean and fed in jeans and a new flannel shirt. All that remained of the cut was a faint pink line on the palm of his hand. Steve had delegated various decorations to his teammates and Operation Rockwell was in full swing.  Natasha was curled up in the comfiest chair using a wicked little knife to turn Tony's crisp, white, second-best Stark Industries letterhead into elaborate snowflakes. Clint and Bruce were making a chain of red and green paper, as Steve had taken the popcorn string away from them as a punishment for eating more than they strung.  He was supposed to be stringing popcorn himself now but was mostly watching the black and white Miracle on 34th Street. Thor arrived just in time to help Tony with the tree, a beautiful twelve foot Fraser fir still wrapped in netting. The Iron Man armor could lift it easily, but it was still awkward to get it into the room from the observation deck. With Thor on the other end, they guided it easily to the waiting tree stand. Tony cut the netting and the boughs sprung out. The room started to fill with the fresh sharp scent of evergreen.

“What do you think, Cap? Does it pass muster?”

“It’s not straight in the thing.” Clint muttered, then went back to cutting up construction paper.

“It’s the best tree in the whole…it IS straight!” Tony clanked around the tree, checking it from all angles.

“I like it,” Steve said. He smiled at Tony, the kid-from-Brooklyn-who-wanted-to-be-an-artist smile, and it made the two days of researching and comparing trees worth the effort.

“A most marvelous tree! Has it been treated with pitch? I do not think it will burn for very long.” Thor reached in and tested the thickness of the trunk. “Perhaps I should fetch us an oak as well?”

“Sorry, no Yule Log. Against fire code.” Everyone turned to look at Bruce. “Whatever fits in the fireplace has to be it.  I checked.” He shrugged and went back to pasting.

The elevator dinged and Pepper came out, her expensive heels clicking on the floor.

“Tony, I need you to look over these reports from R&D, the Asgardian glass isn’t coming along like they…" She stopped dead, her staccato heels falling silent. "What is that?”

  
   “Hey Pepper.  Christmas tree.  We’re going to decorate it.  Stick around, there might be some cocoa in it for you.”  Tony strode over and took the stack of papers from her with a smirk.

  
   “What is going on?” she lowered her voice so only he could hear her.  “Your usual plan for the holidays is to double your order of scotch, and now you’re making popcorn strings?”

  
   The smirk dropped. “It’s Thor…I sort of promised him we could have a proper winter celebration in a moment of weakness and everyone seems disturbingly willing to run with it.”

  
   “So you’re telling me that this year a magical Scandinavian in red showed up to teach you the true meaning of the season?” Pepper picked up the smirk.

  
   “Something like that, yeah, if the true meaning is wanting to avoid his damn sad puppy face.”

“You are a better person than you give yourself credit for, Tony Stark."  Pepper turned around, smiling at the mess. "It looks lovely.  How do you know how to do all of this?” 

“That was mostly me.  The nuns at the orphanage always put up a tree with us.  It’s pretty simple if you can be trusted with scissors,” Steve joked.  “Here Thor, do the pomanders.  The cloves won’t sting your fingers.” 

  
   “Nay, I cannot.  I came to see how preparations were coming but now I must start my Yule duties in earnest.”

  
   “Do you want to put the star on the top?  It’s an honor.”

  
   “I have promised Tony not to use Mjolnir indoors unless an emergency should arise.”  Thor looked thoughtful.  “Might this count?”

  
   “Sure, what the hell, it’s Christmas. Go nuts.  But I’m doing the lights.”

 

***

  
    Thor tapped on Tony’s door later, just as the sun was beginning to sink.  He had the sack with him. It was a deep red, finely woven of sturdy wool, with a white border embroidered with an abstract holly design, and now it hung differently--like there was something heavy and of indefinite shape in the bottom.  Thor caught Tony’s hand and locked his eyes with a brief but penetrating stare.  Then he reached into the bag and pulled out a small envelope, which he pressed into Tony’s palm.  
    “Merry Yule, my friend.  May you have joy of this gift.”  Without further comment, he hefted the bag over his shoulder and headed down the corridor.  Whatever Tony had expected from Thor, it hadn’t been this.  He turned the envelope over in his hands and broke the seal.  A piece of fine vellum was folded inside, containing only a string of numbers.  Tony knew right away that the handwriting wasn’t Thor’s. His big, blocky lettering always looked one stroke away from being a rune; this was still a strong hand, but more delicate.   Tony closed the door, tapping his gift against his hand as he wandered over to his desk, the project he’d working on temporarily abandoned.

  
  
    Steve didn’t answer his door, so Thor left a big flat box outside his room. It clanked softly as he placed it carefully beside the doormat.

  
  
    Natasha’s package was about the size of a shoebox.  She accepted it with a smile and tucked it away beyond the door, despite Thor’s obvious curiosity.  Thor also gave her an envelope for Bruce and asked her to help him acquire it.  She nodded and tucked it into her jacket.

  
    Clint got a copy of Janet Evanovich’s Notorious Nineteen.  On closer inspection, there was a piece of vellum sticking out of it.

  
  
    The bag produced nothing tangible for Pepper, but Thor could sense it had worked.  A supplier cancelled a conference call.  The Chairman of Stark Industries got word his daughter had gone into labor two weeks early.  Events disappeared or shuffled around her calendar until the next twelve days waited blank.  Elsewhere in the Tower, Tony Stark’s idle musings about the tree connected to the reason Pepper’s parents had nearly named her Noelle.  He called her favorite restaurant and exclusive day spa to find in both cases that they had just had a reservation cancelled for Christmas Eve and would be happy to host a birthday celebration.

  
  
    Jane tucked her scarf more tightly around her neck and went back to squinting through the telescope.  She struggled to write notes with her mittened hands while snow blew across the paper.  Small warm arms wrapped around her waist and Darcy pressed against her back with a rustle of parkas.  
    “I brought you some cocoa,” she said.  Jane turned around and looked down into her eyes.  Darcy rose up on her toes and pulled the scarf away from her face.  For just a moment nothing happened.  Then Darcy’s cold lips were on hers and they were kissing in the raw wind.  

 

***  
  
  
    Thor found Tony scribbling lengthy equations in grease pencil, trying the string of numbers in various places.  He watched fondly for a moment.  
    “I am sorry to interrupt you when you are enjoying your gift, but I need to know where I should put the mead and oxen.”  
    “Hmmm?  Oh, just in the kitchen.  And I think there’s a chest fridge in the basement somewhere.  Pepper knows.”  
    “You must be jesting!  It would never all fit in the Tower.”  
    “Wait, oxen?  Are they dead?”  
    “Aye.  Crusted in pepper and roasted.”  
    “How many of them did you bring?”  
    “Why enough for all the city.  You are the…thane of New York, are you not?  Won’t the people be looking to you for the Yule feasting and drinking?”  
    “Conversations with you always start out so well, too.”  
    “How many barrels do you think we need for twelve days?”  Thor reached into the bag and pulled out a cask big enough to store Hawkeye.  It made Tony a little queasy to see it emerge from the too-small mouth.  He set down his pencil and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  
    “I know I promised you a proper Midgardian Solstice, buddy, but I think this one might be beyond even Pepper’s ability to do magic.  Although I’d personally love to tell the Chief of Police how we are planning a two week city-wide potluck with free booze.  Also how ‘planning’ is a strong word for what we’re doing.”  
    “I believe it could make cider if that would be preferable.  But I will keep the mead for us.  It’s not Yule without at least one cask of mead.”  He patted the cask and strode off to do gods knew what.

 

***

  
  
    Natasha had no trouble finding the general location of Bruce’s present.  The first set of numbers were clearly map coordinates and they’d led her to an address in Brooklyn.  She crouched on the roof of the bakery across the street and cased the target.  She was mildly concerned that she was after some plutonium or something- what did Thor need a trained assassin to acquire for Mr. Chamomile Tea?  A blinking reindeer sweater?  But the guy had gotten between her and the Hulk, so by her accounting she owed him a few favors.  She still had one number to work with, 616340.  She checked her locator once again; it was definitely the spot.  Perhaps this was actually a job for Natalie Rushman.

  
    Changed and armored with her forgeries, she walked into the lobby of the Animal Care and Control of NYC.  A little tree stood near the desk, decorated with bones and fish and little cat and dog ornaments.  A heavyset young woman in a blouse and cardigan that had both seen better days sat before a computer so old that Tony would have cried laughing to see it.  She was reading a battered paperback collection of Christmas themed romances involving cats.  As the door closed, she looked up and smiled at Natalie; her face was kind and she showed no trace of annoyance at having her reading interrupted or having someone come in so close to closing time.

  
    “Can I help you?”

  
    “I’m looking for a new pet,” Natasha told her.  That was probably true.

  
    “Of course!  Lots of people consider adding to their family around the holidays.  Cat or dog?”  Everything she knew about Thor said “dog” but this was for Bruce.

  
    “A cat would be better.  I live in the city.”

  
    “Right this way.  I’m Sylvia.  And what’s your name?”

  
    “Natalie.”

  
    “OK, here’s the cat room.  We have other centers in the city but there’s plenty of darlings to choose from.”  She snapped on the lights in the room, lined with clean cages.  “Can you tell me anything you are looking for in particular?  Was someone a very good little boy or girl this year and Santa is bringing them a pet?”

  
    “Something like that,”  She made a show of casually inspecting the occupants of the cages.  Some looked at her with interest or even rubbed the bars, while others slept on.  She let Sylvia show her a few cats, noting her attachment to her charges.  She knew all their stories and names.  Meanwhile Natasha kept an eye out.  Each cage had a six-digit number assigned to it, and she needed to find the right one.  There- high up on the far wall.  A pair of green eyes watched from the shadowed interior.  The number on the cage was 616340.

  
    “What about that one?” She pointed.

  
    “Oh I’m not sure she’d be a good fit for you.  She’s still very young, just a bit past the kitten stage.  Young cats can get lonely and destructive if someone isn’t there with them.  We only got her a few days ago.  Still, no harm.”  Sylvia set the middle aged tortoise shell she was holding back in her cage with a final fond pat and went over and unhooked the door.  She pulled out a gangly adolescent female, all long gawky legs and giant bat-ears.  Her fur was mostly black with a spattering of white and red tabby, and although she didn’t struggle she watched them both intently.  “This is Makri.”  Sylvia placed the little cat in her arms.  She stretched her long front legs out and put her paws, gently but firmly, on Natasha’s face.

  
    Spider.  In Hindi.  Of course.  “I’ll take this one,” she told her.

  
    “Are you sure?  Well, look at you, I guess you both are.  If you’ll come back out front I’ll let you fill out the adoption application.  Then we’ll check your references—if you are accepted we’ll schedule a time you can come for the pet care seminar and pay your fee.  We require a $100 donation at the time of adoption, unless you have special circumstances.  She’s already spayed and has all her shots…”  Natasha filled out the front of the application with Natalie Rushman’s information as Sylvia talked.  
    “I need her tonight.”

  
    “Oh, well, that’s not how this works, I’m afraid.  We don’t sell them.  We have to make sure they reach loving homes.  It’s nothing against you, but right now we have to be extra careful as well.  People think how sweet a little kitten or puppy would look under the tree and then they end up back here or even out in the street when they can’t take care of them.”

  
    “I’ll make a five thousand dollar donation.”  If there was anything Thor cared about less than money, they hadn’t found out what it was yet.

  
    “Listen, Ms. Rushman, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but we have this procedure in place to protect the animals and I’m not going to let you bribe me into…”

  
    “Ten thousand.”  Natasha liked this woman, though.  There was steel there, and love for these strays.

  
    “Maybe you should leave.”  Sylvia held Makri protectively to her chest.

  
    “Sylvia.  I think we’ve gotten off to a bad start.  I need her tonight because in our tradition gifts come on the Solstice, but I’ve made a mistake and let it go too long and now I’m in a bind.  Please, call my reference.  She’ll be getting an excellent home with us.”  Natasha tried not to think about little Makri with the Hulk.  She still had nightmares about her time in the Helicarrier.   _Stick to the mission, Romanoff.  This is just a routine extraction._

  
    “I don’t…is that THE Tony Stark?”  Sylvia still looked suspicious.

  
    “Yes.  He’s my boss.  Please.”  She called the number, and then Natasha got a true Yuletide miracle.  She’d given Stark’s number because he thought fast and would play along, but Sylvia didn’t reach him- she got Pepper.  As they talked, she could see Sylvia relax as Pepper charmed and reassured her.  She was smiling when she hung up the phone.

  
    “Well, Ms. Potts explained everything.  It’s a bit irregular, but I suppose we could make an exception in this one case.  She indicated that the Stark Foundation would be happy to match any donation you might like to make and that Makri would have a wonderful life with you to watch over her.”  Sylvia tucked the cat into a cardboard temporary carrier with a starter kit of toys, food and litter samples.  Natasha wrote her a very generous check with Mr. Odinson’s money, and collected her handwritten receipt and expensive stray cat before returning to the cold afternoon.

 

***

  
  
    “JARVIS?”

  
    “Yes, sir?”

  
    “How about you help me run this number?  It doesn’t fit in any of the projects I’ve got shelved, maybe if we do a full search…”

  
    “I’m afraid I cannot do that, sir.”

  
    “What?”

  
    “I am in agreement with Mr. Odinson that you should find it on your own.  The journey is perhaps part of the gift.  And my capabilities are being taxed right at the moment.”  
    “I didn’t tell you to…what are you doing?”

  
    “I am assisting Mr. Odinson in the Yuletide preparations.”  JARVIS went into standby mode, the AI equivalent of hanging up on him  
    Apparently Tony couldn’t get good help even if he built it from scratch.  Fine.  He flipped open the holoscreen and put the number into Google.  In his own house.  Like a _peasant_.  He tried not to wonder what Thor and JARVIS were doing together.  He was one hundred percent SURE he would find out soon.

  
    It took him about twenty minutes to determine that the first part of the number corresponded to a library catalogue format used by museums and archives.  The trail hit a dead end at the Archdiocese of New York Historical Society; their records had never been digitized.  Tony sighed and picked up his phone.

  
    Getting the old man (at least he sounded old) who answered the phone to go look up the number wasn’t too hard.  Tony listened with, he thought, admirable patience to an instrumental version of "O Holy Night" eight times.  He imagined the man tottering down ancient stone steps by torchlight, past a sign that said Beware the Leopard to a dusty filing cabinet with a faded card on the front.  Seriously, how did they NOT have a computer there?

  
    “Here we are.  Took a bit of looking but I found it.  Saint Catherine’s Ladies Society Holiday Cookbook, from 1928.”

  
    “I need that book.”   _I don’t know why, but if I’m going to believe in Thor I might as well see it through_ , he thought.

  
    “It’s not for sale, I’m afraid.  It’s the only known copy.”

  
    “How about a photocopy?  Do they have a Xerox machine over there?  A scanner?  Maybe some carrier pigeons?  Are you talking into a can with some string coming out of it right now?”

  
    “That’s not possible."  Tony thought maybe he should have held in the sass as the man’s voice hardened.  "Such treatment could damage the manuscript.  But you could arrange an appointment to view it.  We’ll be closed next week for the holiday but we should have some openings in January.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other duties to attend.” 

  
    “Wait!  Tell me what’s on page 18.  Please.”  Tony thought fast.  “It’s a precious childhood memory of Captain Steve Rogers and I really need it.  I think.”

  
    “Oh!  Well we are certainly fans of Captain America.  We’ve been hoping he might come by and talk to the kids in our after school enrichment hour…”

  
    “I am sure that can be arranged!  He’d love to!  Now please, tell me exactly what it says.”

  
    “It’s an egg nog recipe.  Do you have a pen handy?”

  
    What was the world coming to?  Tony got a pen and a piece of paper and started writing down how much cream he needed.   _Like a peasant._

_***  
_

_  
_Clint hadn't known what to expect from Thor's weird gift, but it hadn't been this.  He had, of course, gone out and bought a Mega Bucks ticket with the numbers from the paper on it, but what did the letters SBICC have to do with anything?  Stark had disappeared off to his lair with his own envelope, so he'd asked Bruce for ideas.  He'd suggested trying map coordinates, which had led him to Shady Brook, New York, and the Shady Brook Rehabilitation Center, a private high-security medical facility with some shady connections of its own.  Overall he would have preferred the keys to Stark's Bentley until he moved on to the still-mysterious numbers 193.

  
    The security was pretty good, he'd give it that, but it was obvious none of the guards really thought anyone would try to get in, at least through a second-story barred window with an alarm.  It was a typical high-end hospital room, he supposed, nicer than any he'd ever landed in but built along the same lines.  There was a bed with a curtain around it, probably to keep the lights from the compound that came in through the window (now down one bar- he'd have to thank Stark for the tiny laser).  A single chair was pulled up to the bedside like someone actually came here to visit, which eliminated his only theory.  If Thor's idea of a present was the opportunity to cuss out Barney one more time, he'd take it, but no one would come to see Barney Barton.  He paused with his feet half way to the floor and thought about this for a moment.

  
    “Hell with this,” he said under his breath.  It only took him two steps to get to the bed and he yanked back the thin curtain.

  
    It was Phil.  That _motherfucker_.  He should have put two in Fury's brain when he'd had the chance.  He made himself look, take in the tubes running in and out of him, the beeps and clicks of the monitors and the rhythmic hiss of air, though at least the red ruin of his chest was covered.  He told himself it would look very different after this long, but it didn't help.  The bedside table had two frames, one with his autographed picture of Captain America he'd inherited from his grandmother, and the other a snapshot of Clint himself and Natasha that Phil had taken in Belize, the two assassins caught startled with wonder at a bright flock of tropical birds.

  
    “Thor thinks you're in Valhalla, dude,” he blurted out.  “He told me you'd be up to your ass in roast boar and buxom wenches.”  He had, too- Clint had come close to punching him, and only stopped because he couldn't afford to break his fingers on that stupid Norse face.  Also Thor wouldn't even mind.  “I'm sorry.  I just couldn't go.  They kept saying you were dead.  Hey, I heard Captain America even shed like three manly tears by your grave—total boner of joy for you, right?”  He wasn't sure he should say “boner” in this harsh, sterile room.  Coulson would laugh, though.  Right?  Even though he was blowing this.  Phil would have imagined a tearful bed-side reunion straight out ER; but then he had probably imagined he'd be awake as well.

  
    “So I guess this makes sense, now,” he said, pulling the new Janet Evanovich hardcover out of his pack.  “I'm not sure if you'd believe me if I told you how I ended up here because of Thor's magical Viking fun bag and I brought this chick lit crap you love and got a losing lottery ticket and some Snickers on the way...I've been thinking about you even though I try not to, you know?  I was thinking this was going to be the shittiest Christmas ever because you weren't around, and it still IS the shittiest Christmas, and you know I know from crap holidays, but at least I know where you are, and it's not that hole in Arlington.  I don't think there's much point in leaving this here for you, but I guess I could read it to you.  Sorry in advance I'm not much good.”  He settled into the chair, Fury forgotten, and began the newest chapter in the life of Stephanie Plum.  He started slowly, fumbling frequently- reading had always been something he did from necessity- but he soon warmed to his task.  He didn't really know what was going on, because he hadn't read the other hojillion books in the series, but he started acting things out from his chair, and only occasionally summing up a boring part so they could move on.  He knew it was his imagination, but he liked to think he could see Phil's expression changing as he read.  Clint wasn't sure how long he had until a guard or nurse came by, but he wanted to do the story justice.

  
    “So then they- oh man you won't believe this- then they....” he paused dramatically, trying to picture how he would look, that little crease in his forehead that was the best tell that he was excited about something.  “Oh, looks like I'm out of time, Phil.  What a shame, right at the best part.  I guess if you want to know what happens you'll just have to wake up and live.  I'll leave this here for you open to the page,” He carefully set the book on the table with the spine up, because he knew Coulson couldn't stand that.  He watched for a response.  Nothing.  “Also I've been eating Cheetos this entire time and getting orange smudges on the pages and the dust jacket,” he tried hopefully.  Still nothing.  It was getting late and he shouldn’t really leave the book here.  Who knew what Fury would do?  Move him somewhere else?  Nothing at all?  He picked it back up, got out a pen and wrote: _Merry Yule Coulson -Clint_ on the title page.  He closed the book, straightened the dust jacket, and set it reverently back on the bedside table.  Let Fury rage if he wanted.  Clint let himself out the way he’d come in, whistling "Deck the Halls".

 

***

  
  
    Clint still wasn’t back when Natasha returned to the Tower with a bag of hippy organic cat food and a litter pan.  She took Makri up to her apartment and set everything down.

  
    “If you don’t hide or pee anywhere, I will see to it there’s some tuna in it for you,” she told the cat.  Makri’s eyes were wide with excitement.  She prowled off to sniff her way around the room.  Natasha sat down on her chaise.  The box from Thor was still where she’d left it.  She was hoping it was some sort of Asgardian weaponry, but it was too light.  Maybe a nice sweater?  Clint had privately expressed his wish that the paper in his book was a gift receipt, but she didn’t think Thor’s magic bag was a portal to Books A Million.  What would Thor think to give her?  She opened the box.

  
    She parted the fine, tissue-like linen wrapping within and found a pair of battered ballet shoes.  They were much mended and the silk had faded to a barely blushing ivory, unmistakeable as her own.  She’d last seen them in 1923, when she was six years old.  Her fingers didn’t shake as she traded Natalie Rushman’s stylish but sensible pumps for antique point shoes.  They fit.  They shouldn’t; it was impossible.  The whole thing was impossible.  The man she’d called father had burned them in front of her the night before he handed her over to her new masters.  She stood and tried them experimentally.  It felt odd, but even after all these years she hadn’t forgotten how.

  
    She remembered.  She’d been born graceful, or they wouldn’t have tried the serum on her, but she’d wanted to be a dancer.  She sat back down on the chaise.  Makri came to join her, shoving her little head under her hand.  Natasha petted her absently and thought about the little girl she’d once been, a lifetime ago in Russia.

 

***

  
  
    Thor finally felt that the Tower was ready for Yule.  Just in time, as the sun was rapidly setting.  He led Sleipnir out onto the observation deck, carrying the bag, still full and vibrant.  He leapt onto his mount’s back and the horse danced with anticipation under him.

  
    “Are you ready?”  Sleipnir snorted as Thor settled the sack on his lap.  “Then let’s be away!”  With a running start Sleipnir pushed off with all eight hooves and soon they were moving too fast for human sight.

 

***

  
  
    Tony had to move the dead cow out of the kitchen before he could start work.  He supposed it was his own fault, because that was exactly where he’d told Thor to put them.  He wondered if he’d be finding more whole roasted oxen throughout the Tower.

  
    “JARVIS?  You still not talking to me?”

  
    “I think you’ve done admirably, sir.”

  
    “Great.  Listen, do I own a nutmeg grater?”  Tony stared at the mysterious nut in his hand.  The recipe insisted it should be grated fresh.

  
    “No sir.  However I believe Doctor Banner left a spice grinder in the communal area which would serve.”

  
    “Perfect.”  Tony started rummaging in the drawers.  “So what were you and Thor up to?”

  
    “Mr. Odinson felt that he had perhaps placed too great a burden on you and Ms. Potts by asking you to arrange the communal feast and that people might prefer to not be annointed with sacrificial blood.  So we made alternate arrangements.”

  
    “Like what?”  Tony was getting that feeling again.  Like he’d be better off not asking, but he had to ask.

  
    “With his assistance I have ensured that there are no delinquent bills anywhere in the city.  No evictions, no utility shut offs, no foreclosures, all shelters and food pantries are fully stocked, all fund raising goals are met.  He is presently delivering more personal gifts throughout the city.”

  
    “And how did he pay for all of that?”  The Board would just love it if it had come from Stark Industries money.

  
    “He transferred 50786 ounces of gold in stamped bars from the Treasury of Asgard to your personal assets.  We negotiated a fair price.  Mr. Odinson refused to allow me to pay any sort of premium for Asgardian gold.”  Tony did some mental math.  Then he did it again.

  
    “Good job, JARVIS.  Way to help spread the holiday cheer.  Remind me to reprogram you to display in red and green for the next few weeks.”

  
    “Very good sir.  Do not allow the cream to scorch.”

  
    “What?  Shit!”  
  
   

***

  
  
    Thor and Sleipnir whirled through the city and surrounding boroughs.  Sleipnir paused in each house and apartment and inhabited alleyway and shelter and Thor left something for the occupants, whatever the bag thought they needed.  He left countless phone numbers and addresses, each with its own story.  He left a man’s suit here, an old teddy bear with one missing eye there, a yellowed photograph, a three-month supply of Diazepam.  A bus ticket.  A child’s wheelchair.  Hundreds of places went by as the minutes slowly advanced.  A packet of letters.  A diamond ring in an unmarked jeweler’s box.  A case of clean hypodermic needles.  A crib meant for twins.  Thor hurried, pushing even his father’s mount’s endurance and speed, both of them fueled by the magic in the bag and the deepening night itself.

 

***

  
  
    Bruce answered the door with flour on his hands.

  
    “Evening Natasha.  Everything OK?  I didn’t hear any alarm and the comms are silent…”

  
    “No, no, it’s fine.  Can I come in?”

  
    “Sure.  Did the smell bring you?  I figured if everyone else could be festive, I could do a little baking.  My mom called these Russian Rocks.”  He gestured to a rack of bar cookies drizzled with white icing cooling on the counter of his little kitchen.  They were lumpy and fragrant with molasses.

  
    “Actually I came to bring you something.”  She handed him the carrier as he dusted off his hands on his apron.  “It’s from Thor.”

  
    “What is…a kitten?  You got me a kitten?”  He pulled Makri out of the box.  She sniffed him intently as he looked at her with vague horror.  “I mean, thanks, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.  I don’t even keep fish.”  Still, he brought her closer to him, resting her on his chest.  She began batting at the neck ties of his apron.  
    “Her name is Makri.  They gave it to her at the shelter.”  She knew he knew what it meant, too.

  
    “I can’t.  What if I…”

  
    “You won’t.”  She found she believed it.  The little cat butted the top of her head on Bruce’s chin, purring.  “I was someone else once.  I changed.  So did Clint, and Stark, even Cap.”

  
    “How can you believe that after I…on the Helicarrier…”

  
    “But you didn’t.”  She put her hand on his arm.  “Keep the cat, Bruce.  She’ll be good for you.”  She understood now why Thor wanted her to do this.  Bruce smiled, scratching Makri’s ears, and she knew he heard what she wasn’t saying: I trust you.  I forgive you.  “Merry Yule.  Come on up when the cookies are done.  I think Thor made us dinner.”

  
    “Wouldn’t want to miss that.”

 

 ***

  
  
    Tony thought he just about had it.  He’d never liked egg nog- he preferred his liquor straight- but it tasted right, thick and spiced and…noggy.  He still didn’t know what the hell it was for, but it was ready.

  
    “Tony?”  Steve walked into the kitchen carrying a large flat box.

  
    “Yeah Cap?  What’s that?”

  
    “It’s my present from Thor.  I think I need your help.”  He sounded almost shy.  He set the box down and took the lid off, revealing an old reel of 16mm film.  “I don’t know where to watch it.  Do you…have a projector?”

  
    “What is it, some Greatest Generation sex tapes?  Nah, don’t mind me.  You think I have some old projection equipment?”

  
    “Well I hoped you did.  Or knew where I could find some.  I don’t know what it is, so I’d rather view it privately.”

  
    “I don’t…actually I DO.  Wait here.”  Tony cut the heat from under the egg nog and went to get the projector from his father’s secret bolt hole.  He took the reel of his father out and wondered, once again, what to do with it.  Howard hadn’t managed to actually say anything normal like “I love you”…but it was as close as he’d ever get.  He stashed it in a closet and lugged the projector out to the elevator and down to the living room.

  
    Steve waited patiently while Tony got it set up.  They took a painting off the wall and set it on the floor to make a screen and Tony got the film rolling.  He was curious, but he discretely returned to the kitchen to keep his egg nog from getting cold.

  
    The picture flickered to life, tinted sepia.  Steve recognized the scene immediately.  A farmhouse in Southern France on a bitter Christmas night.  He remembered breaking up a china cabinet for firewood and feeling guilty, because it was clearly something the lady of the house prized.  They had stacked her plates and saucers neatly in a cupboard under the stairs.  He saw himself, huddled next to the fire with Bucky and Dugan, Morita, Dernier, Jones and Falsworth.  They were sharing the last two dry cigarettes.  There was no sound except for the whirring of the projector, but he could almost hear Dernier leading them in a broken version of “Un Flambeau, Jeanette Isabelle”.  Morita held up a hand and their lips stopped moving.  They heard a small plane, he knew.  They scrambled for guns and positions.  No Nazis came through the farmhouse door, though.  Howard Stark came in, looking so like Tony and yet not, carrying boxes like Saint Nicholas, and Peggy with him.

  
    The military never could control Howard.  He shouldn’t have been there at all, but he’d said he was bringing them critical supplies and flown off.  They broke them open on the screen- cream and eggs and bourbon in one, worth a fortune on the black market, and a whole crate of oranges glowing like a miracle.  Peggy had brought them tinned beef stew and cigarettes and about a month’s worth of mail from home.  She wrapped a blue wool scarf around past-Steve’s neck with her signature little smile that promised so much and he felt himself blushing in the present.

  
    He watched them making dinner over the little fire, having an argument over the proportions of the egg nog, singing and laughing and extracting every bit of orange from the rinds.

  
    “Not a porno, huh?”  Tony pressed a mug into his hand and watched as Howard passed around gifts like Father Christmas.

  
    “No.  I think I might owe Thor an apology.”

  
    “Why’s that?”

  
    “Because this film doesn’t exist.  No one was recording us that night, yet here it is.”

  
    “You wanted to see them again.”

  
    “Maybe I did.  Like we were.  Bucky died a few weeks after this, but that Christmas...”  Steve took an absent sip of his drink, and for a moment it was like he was there, in 1943.  “How did you make this?  It’s exactly…exactly like I remember.”  His eyes were still sad, but they were also filled with wonder.

  
    “It was in an old recipe book.”  Tony sat next to him on the couch as the film flickered on.  “Tell me about them?”

  
    “That’s me there, of course, and that’s Bucky next to me trying to steal some of my orange.  That’s…well, that’s your dad.”

  
    “He was never like that at Christmas that I remember.”

  
    “And there’s Morita and Dugan…”  Steve learned forward, pointing at the screen.  Tony was very aware that their knees were touching, but Steve didn’t seem to notice.  He told Tony about Christmas with the Howling Commandos, which turned into Christmases at the orphanage with Bucky.  He told him about trying to visit Peggy at the rest home in England and how she hadn’t known him, and stories of a Howard Stark who bore little resemblance to the father Tony remembered.  Steve ended up with his arm half around Tony’s waist as he talked, gently holding him in place as though he would go sliding back into the past if he let go.  Tony doubted he realized he was doing it.   _Thank you, Thor_ , he thought.   _I’m sorry I doubted your magic bag._

  
  
    “Are we interrupting?”  Natasha asked from the doorway.  The projector had gone still, but Steve was still next to him.  Like a spell breaking, he slid away from Tony.  
    Tony thought, _Yes_ , but he said “Not at all!  We were just enjoying Steve’s gift from Thor.   Come on in, have some egg nog.”

  
    “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, pouring some into a mug.  Bruce came in behind her, carrying a plate of cookies and a kitten.  Natasha traded him a mug of egg nog for the plate of cookies and they sat down as well.

  
    “We wondered if you guys had seen the news,” Bruce said.  Tony and Steve exchanged a look.  “Seems there’s been a city-wide rash of reverse burglaries.  Someone has been leaving everyone in New York just what they wanted for the holidays.”

  
    “And Thor’s crazy horse is missing,” Clint said as he entered the room, trying to stamp some feeling back into his toes.

  
    “Were you on a mission?  Why are you dressed like that?”

  
    “Yes.  Are you wearing ballet shoes?  And what’s with the cat?”  Clint took a cookie and took in the pot on the stove.  “Hey, and here I was thinking someone would have to hit the Seven-Eleven for some nog.”

  
    “I think this can all best be summed up by saying: Thor.”  Bruce had let Makri go to roam the room and hooked Thor’s iPod into the stereo system.  “Greensleeves” began playing softly.

  
    “So…Phil Coulson’s still alive.” Clint had decided on his way back to the Tower that he would not keep Fury’s secret from the team.  He drank his egg nog and told them the story of how he followed Thor’s clue to Coulson’s hospital room.  No one asked him what had become of Notorious Nineteen, and he didn’t volunteer that part.  “If Fury doesn’t move him, we can go visit.  And if he does move him, we’ll find him,” he finished.  Behind him, the elevator dinged and Pepper came in carrying a large box.

  
    “Merry Yule everyone!  I brought stockings.”  She set the box down.

  
    “What are you doing here, Pepper?  Didn’t you have a meeting or something tonight?  Not that we aren’t delighted to see you.”  Tony eyed his teammates, trying to see if they thought she should know about Coulson too.  Clint made a single quick shake of his head, no, and made the hand sign for “danger”.  Tony nodded back.  He’d tell her later.

  
    “Meeting got canceled.  Actually quite a few meetings got cancelled.  In fact, according to my schedule, right now I am ‘having Tony’s magic egg nog’,” she read off her PDA.  “Tony Stark, you are so lucky I long ago gave up on worrying about sexual harassment.”

  
    “No, there’s actually egg nog,” Bruce said in his defense.  “I don’t know about magic, but it’s pretty good.”

  
    “There’s roast beef in the kitchen, too, if someone is willing to deal with food that still has a head.”  Clint looked around hopefully.

  
    “Is that a part of a proper Midgardian Solstice?” Pepper asked, grinning at Tony.

  
    “I got it,” said Bruce, and he went into the kitchen with Makri trailing after him.

  
     
    Thor arrived just in time to accept an oxen sandwich.  He was still carrying the bag, but it was much diminished- the fabric was thin now, and the color faded, and the bag itself much smaller, barely larger than a grocery sack now.  Thor’s hair and cape smelled like cold night air and his armor was limned with frost.  

  
    “I’m glad to see you all enjoying the Yule celebration!”  He sounded more like himself than he had for a long time, though his eyes were still tired.  He dug into his sandwich and let the flow of talk and music and warmth wash over him.

  
    The iPod switched over to the "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy".  Natasha looked up and smiled.  She stood and stretched, then began to dance.  She knew she was rusty, but it was a pleasure she’d not allowed herself for longer than she could remember, and it felt good.  The others fell silent, watching her.  She held the pose at the end of the short piece, her eyes closed.

  
    “I forgot how much it hurts your feet,” she said, and laughed.  The next song was "The Russian Dance", also from The Nutcracker.  “Come on, Clint, get up.  All of you.  Let’s see some leaping.”  She tried to teach them all the basic steps to the dance as she remembered it, which ended up with most of them laughing in a pile on the floor.  The egg nog and the magical feel of the whole night were working on them all, and so the dancing didn’t stop when the song switched.  Clint claimed Natasha right away, and Pepper held her hand out to a blushing Bruce.

  
    “Come on, Cap, you’re with me.”  Tony gestured for him to come closer.

  
    “No thanks.  I don’t dance.  Besides, if I sit out there’s an even number.”  Steve still seemed subdued and distant, like his mind was still with the past.

  
    “Suit yourself, then.  All right Point Break, you’re up.  But I’m leading.”  He took Thor as his first partner instead.  They all switched around with each new song, Steve watching from the couch, sipping the egg nog and smiling.    

  
  
    Tony ended up with Thor as his partner again as a soft, slow version of “I’ll be Home for Christmas” began playing.  Thor held his waist like there was nothing at all unusual about slow dancing with a man.

  
    “Thor…I meant to ask you, what did you get for Yule?”

  
    “Nothing.  I want for nothing.  And the bag cannot grant its bearer’s wish, in any event.”

  
    “I didn’t know I wanted an egg nog recipe from the 1920s, either…”  Thor leaned in close to him, so close their cheeks were almost touching, and Tony thought the big Asgardian might be about to kiss him.  The thought wasn’t unpleasant, but it also wasn’t anything he’d prepared for, either.

  
    “I think,” Thor said in Tony’s ear, so low he almost couldn’t hear him, “That you should ask our esteemed Captain to dance.”

  
    “He didn’t want to.”

  
    “He has waited a long time for the right person.  Ask him now.”  Thor gave the small of his back a gentle shove, steering Tony in the direction of Steve.

  
    Thor watched with a small smile as Tony asked Steve to dance with an exaggerated bow, and the Captain took his hand and rose.  They were preoccupied trying to figure out who would lead.  The holly trim on the bag vanished entirely and a sprout of mistletoe grew and wound around a light fixture over their heads, even producing its distinctive white berries.  Thor did not wait for them to notice it.  He slipped away onto the observation deck and left the mortals to their own initiative.

 

  
  
Thor stepped out into a deep and peaceful night.  His thighs burned from the effort of riding all day, and the barely healed cuts and bruises acquired on his journey to Asgard ached.  Sleipnir was waiting for him, lying on his side out of the wind.  Thor lowered himself to the concrete in front of his exhausted mount and settled against the warm bulk of Sleipnir’s flank, head tilted up to the stars.  He patted the horse for a minute, then gathered his crimson cloak around him and settled in to keep watch.  

  
   Behind him, the Tower quieted and went still bit by bit.  The music went off and for just a moment he could hear the far off thread of the broken bifrost’s crippled melody entwined with the sound of the stars.  Then he heard the end of A Christmas Carol come on the television.  His friends were drowsing on the sofas, tired but not willing to split up, hesitant to dispel a magic they could sense but not believe.  A deep cold was seeping into his legs from the windswept stone of the deck and he twisted his numb fingers in his cloak.  Faintly he heard Patrick Stewart pleading like a dazzled child, please let the spirits have done it all in one night.  He was conscious of his father’s borrowed magic bag, discarded but near at hand, worn thin and brittle as an onion skin from his work.

  
   A faint footstep and a hushed whisper of fabric came from behind him, sounds so familiar he didn’t even react.  Sleipnir roused from his doze, catching Loki’s scent with flared nostrils, but didn’t move away.

  
   “Such a merry Solstice, brother,” Loki smirked and sank gracefully to the ground next to him.  Unnoticed, Odin’s bag crumbled completely to colorless dust and blew away.  “You always were one to choose color and drape over anything practical,” he said, fingering Thor’s cape with disdain.  He swirled his own heavy emerald cloak over both of them, and Thor instantly felt warmer as the cold no longer cut to his skin.  Loki produced a fragrant, steaming tankard seemingly from nowhere, a favorite trick of his, and  firmly wrapped Thor’s icy fingers around it.

  
   Thor found he couldn’t speak- everything he’d been wanting to say coated his tongue like ash- but he sipped his drink and the taste of spiced apples and honey heated him with a jolt, a pure taste of home so bittersweet it brought him to the brink of tears.

  
   “You shouldn’t be out here,” Loki said, not unkindly.  “Winter really isn’t your season.”  And oh, was that true.  Thor felt dim and tired, worn out and empty as the dead year.  “Come here.”  Loki pulled him into the hollow of his shoulder, and Thor did not resist.  His brother was unarmored, and he relaxed, resting his cheek on nothing harder or sharper than fine leather and wool.  He sighed and breathed in the smoky scent of winter air and the cool, sweet mint and snow smell of Loki himself, a sensory memory that had meant home since he was a child.  Thor was a summer god at heart, but his brother had always loved the long night and cared nothing about the cold.  He found comfort in his brother’s presence, as he had so many Solstice nights before, waiting anxiously to see if the cycle of seasons would continue to turn.

  
   No more words passed between them- words could only ruin this- but there were low rumbles of thunder in the distance.  The Tower went dark and silent behind them as the gods kept their vigil, waiting for a sign that a new year would dawn.  They watched the stars until they dimmed and fell behind a blanket of clouds.

 

  
  
   Thor woke to Loki’s cool lips on his, rising to meet the kiss with no thought, only need.  He found the new day had caught him sleeping and arrived without fanfare as it did every year.  Loki was gone; his kiss was an illusion, a soft snowflake drifting slowly down from the sky, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that these were for him, a cold but loving caress.  The emerald cloak was tucked carefully around his body, and still warm.  His own was gone.

  
   Thor sat up slowly, stiff from his night on the stone.  He wrapped the cloak around him tightly, wondering at the falling snow.  There was a promise now that the light would return, and he already felt stronger.  Huddled in the cloak with its lingering scent of Loki, he hoped it would be warmth enough to bring him through this long winter.


End file.
